Sammy, Never Change
by clair beaubien
Summary: Post 6.22 Sam never met anyone or anything in need that he didn't help. Up now Ch2: a friend of Roadkill returns the favor.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Denise D. if you're reading this, I sent you a few responses but it doesn't seem like you got them. The trip is still a go. If all else fails, private message me.

* * *

Seriously, I hope my brother never changes.

People who don't know him look at him and see a giant. I mean - I'm a big guy; in the general pool of people, I'm bigger and taller than most. But next to my little brother, when people describe us, I'm '_the __**short **__one_'. People who look at Sam see a giant who sometimes maybe doesn't talk much, who stands behind me like he's hired muscle, and who, when he's annoyed, has a scowl that looks like it could put a dent in cast iron.

But when _I_ look at him, when it's just a 'regular' day (normal people regular) and we're just driving or talking or whatever, when I look at Sam, I see my little brother. I see the guy who went to hell for six billion strangers. (The guy who would go to hell _again_ for six billion strangers.) The guy who hangs up shirts he didn't knock off the hanger at the thrift store. The guy who's polite and considerate to everyone he meets (the guywas polite to a friggin _zombie_, for crying out loud.)

He drives me crazy sometimes (a _lot_ of times) but I hope that deep down, he never really changes.

We're heading out late this morning after hunting a Wendigo the past couple of days. The motel was cheap, the beds were soft, the water was hot, and sleeping in was _awesome_. There'd been a murderous rainstorm last night (can I just say how hard it is to describe things while trying to avoid calling them 'wicked', 'freaky', or 'the mother of all…'?) and there's a lake in the middle of the parking lot we need to negotiate to get to the trunk of car.

Sam's quiet. It wasn't a tough job, as 0ur jobs go, so there's not much about it to review. But _I'm _not feeling 'quiet' right now. Sixteen days ago Castiel bought a permanent seat on "Crazy Train" and if I don't talk about something, I'll think about it, how he turned on us. On _me_. And I don't _want _to think about it.

Okay, so I'm thinking about it anyway.

"That Wendigo's going to find Purgatory a little empty." I say. It's a stupid thing to say, I know, but it's where my mind is right now. Sam gives me a look, but no answer. Just a look that tells me (again) that he knows I can't let it go. And that he understands. And that it's okay.

Sixteen days ago I was afraid that Sam had gotten a one-way pass on his own Crazy Train, (thanks, _or not, _to Castiel) but he's tough, he's handling it. _We're _handing it. When he starts feeling the thousand-yard stare coming on, or when I see it coming on, he lets me know or I let him know, and we get him thinking about something else. One time I let him explain to me (_in minute detail_) the difference in translation of 'The Odyssey' between Greek to English, and Greek to _French _to English.

_Rock on, dude. _

So then, of course, the next time he needed distracting, he had to listen to me describe (_in minute detail_) the best way to rebuild an engine. I gave him a pop quiz at the end of it, too, just to be sure he'd been listening.

He grumbled (and got 100 on the quiz) but hell passed without him faceplanting or electrocuting or slipping away from me. One of these days, I'm sure, hell _won't_ pass that easily, but we'll deal with that then.

For now, we come out of the motel and try to stow our gear in the trunk without going ankle deep in the lake that used to be the parking lot. Finally though, Sam just steps into the water and gets it done.

"Where do we think the closest diner is?" I ask and when he looks down the main drag and all the businesses crowding around there, his interest latches onto something farther down the motel parking lot, out in the road past the driveway.

"What?" I ask. I don't see anything.

"I don't know." He doesn't know and yet he starts walking that way anyway.

"If you don't know, don't you think maybe you shouldn't -"

But just that fast, I'm talking to air because just that fast Sam is at the road, crouched down, looking at a dark lump on the white line.

_Please _tell me it's not supernatural. I'm too tired to think about another job right now.

"Sam? Sammy, what is it?"

He stands up and waves me closer.

_"It's a baby raccoon."_

When I get closer, it's pretty obvious to me,

"You mean a _dead_ baby raccoon."

The thing looks hardly bigger than one of Sam's hands. It obviously went through the rainstorm last night, the fur's all wet and matted, the body is outlined in 'road sand' that washed down in the rain. It's all flat out, not moving. No blood or guts or missing body parts, but I've seen dead, and that thing is _dead_.

Sam's got that look though, that '_I should've been able to save it'_ look.

"Dude, it's a raccoon. It's roadkill."

_"He was all alone." _Sam says, like the thing was a friend or a kid or a something _other _than roadkill. We've seen our share of roadkill. Hell, we've _caused_ our share of it. We've also _checked_ our share of roadkill, whether we caused it or not, when they're obviously not dead, or there's enough doubt in my little brother how dead they really are.

Seriously, I hope he never changes.

"You want to _bury_ it?" I ask.

"Move him off the road, maybe. So nobody runs over him."

As if the thing could get any deader.

But I hold my remarks and he nudges the thing with the toe of his boot, checking for rigor mortis.

_And the thing moves._

It _moves._ It shakes and wriggles its little arms and legs and liftts its head and trills out what sounds like a distress call.

_It isn't dead. _

Okay, we can deal. We've dispatched our share of roadkill too, when they weren't quite as dead as they should've been. I reach for my gun and look around for a nice, secluded spot.

"_Dean_. No, don't. Wait." Sam crouches down again. "Maybe we could..."

"Maybe we could _what_?" I ask when Sam doesn't finish the thought. "Sam, he's suffering. We've got to put him out of his misery."

"But - wait - just - " His hand hovers briefly over the raccoon then he lifts it up by the scruff.

"Hey - be careful. It could bite you. Or poop on you." And right now, I'm not sure which would be worse.

"No, it's all right." He lifts the thing up and looks it over, like he knows what he's looking for, while Roadkill the Raccoon is still squirming and trilling and shaking. "No blood. Moving around so the spine must be okay. No obvious signs of head injury."

"I repeat - what are we supposed to do with it?"

"Maybe there's a vet in town?" Sam says as he stands up with the thing and gives me that look. That '_okay, __**please**__?'_ look he's had since forever. And as he says it, he puts the raccoon against his side and tucks his shirt tail under and around it, protecting it.

Just as I'm going to mention to him, _again,_ the possibility of poop and rabies, and point out _again _that the raccoon is obviously suffering, damn if the thing doesn't stop shaking and trilling. It presses against Sam and grips little raccoon fingers around Sam's thumb, and with what sure sounds like a satisfied grunt, it puts its head down on Sam's hand and closes its eyes.

Anybody else would give me a look of triumph and victory. Sam looks at me like this is the best, most heartwarming moment he's ever experienced.

Because a _baby raccoon_ likes him.

I give in.

"Okay, Dr. Doolittle. Now what?"

"Find a vet, I guess."

"All right. I'll go ask the clerk if there's one in town. You and _Roadkill_ wait here."

"Don't call him that." Sam says, (_whines_) like the furball can hear me, or understand what I'm saying.

Sammy, seriously, don't ever change.

Turns out there's no vet in the tiny town of Robinson, but there is one in the next town over, about nine miles down the road.

While we drive there, I glance over every once in awhile. I make it look like I'm looking at Roadkill, but I'm looking at Sam. He's got his head bent down, watching the raccoon, rubbing a thumb back and forth against it, through his shirt. Sammy, who spent one hundred and eighty years burning alive in hell to save a world that didn't even realize, has all his concentration focused on comforting a soggy, ratty, half-dead furball.

"Holding on?" I ask. I let Sam think I'm asking about the raccoon. He turns a smile up to me.

_"I think he's snoring."_

I can't help but be happy at his happiness. He deserves to be happy about something. We both do. And who knows, maybe Roadkill deserves it too. Because goodness knows (I'm trying not to say _God _knows, or _Lord _knows, or even _heaven _knows anymore...) the little furball is a whole lot less trouble than any other fanged, clawed thing we've ever dealt with.

"I think we should call him 'Castiel'." Sam says, a little while later, totally (_totally) _out of the blue.

"Why? Because you never know when he's going to turn on you?" I have to ask.

Sam rolls his eyes andd takes a breath to answer me, but we're there, at the vet's.

The vet who doesn't take raccoons.

_"We don't take raccoons." _The receptionist tells us, sounding snooty and just a little bit _disappointed_. Like we should've known. "You shouldn't even have touched it. You should have left it where you found it."

"_He's hurt_." Sam says, standing behind me. It's the first thing he's said in here. He sounds appalled. "He was lying at the side of a busy road, _hurt_. We couldn't leave him there."

Roadkill starts trilling again then, like he can feel that Sam's not happy, and the receptionist purses a look at him like it's ruining her day.

"**We **_don't_ **take **_raccoons."_

Sam steps right up to the counter and out of instinct I put my hand on his arm to check him because he's got his _'I'm six foot five and I __**know **__it' _posture going on. He's _pissed _and the receptionist is about to feel it.

**"**_**Who. Does?" **_He asks (_demands_) in his _'rumble of thunder' _voice.

Her expression freezes in blank terror, and her hands reach for her rolodex while her eyes stay fixed on Sam's face so far above her.

_"One of our clients works with wildlife_." She says, saying it in a hurry, and I push Sam back a little bit. She can't help us if she's too terrified to speak.

Sam moves back and turns away and bends his head down to Roadkill again, making soothing noises and stroking his thumb back and forth until the trilling and wriggling and shaking stops.

It isn't until I hear the nervous throat clearing that I realize I'm concentrating on Sam and not paying attention to Miss _Doesn't-Take-Raccoons_. I turn back to her and she's handing me a sticky note.

"That's her phone number. And her address." She's still talking fast and shooting uneasy glances at Sam's back. She'll be happy when we're gone.

"How do we get here?" I ask her. Turns out it's not far. We're back in the car and down a few roads and in another fifteen minutes we're at the house. It's a small white house with a big red barn,toys and bikes scattered around. As we get out of the car, a woman comes out from the barn.

"Can I help you?" She asks. She ends up next to Sam. She doesn't even come up to his shoulder.

"We found a baby raccoon." Sam tells her. He pulls his tuck of shirt back a little to show her and as if on cue, Roadkill starts up with his trilling again.

"Where did you find him?" She asks, in a _'oh, the poor little thing' _voice and walks right up to Sam for a closer look.

"In front of - almost in front of - the Best Rest motel, near the Walmart over in Robinson." Sam (Mr. 'I-wouldn't-cop-to-breaking-my-own-leg-but-I-_will_-go-encyclopedic-for-Roadkill') tells her. "We made sure he was moving all his arms and legs before we picked him up. There was no blood, no obvious injuries. It looked like he was out in the rain last night though. He was pretty cold when I picked him up. We didn't give him any water or try to give him any food or anything. He's been sleeping most of the time since we found him."

She's nodding her head and giving Roadkill a once over without taking him out of Sam's arms.

"The vet wouldn't take him." Sam adds. "The lady there said we shouldn't even have touched him."

She shakes her head at that, and huffs her own complaint.

"Y'gotta wonder about people sometimes. C'mon back here. Let's get this little guy set up."

We go into the barn which inside is set up more like a car repair garage. She unlocks a padlock on a screen door that leads into a room on the back and we follow her in there. There's heavy duty shelves set up with all sorts and sizes of cages on them. A few of them have heat lamps beaming down into them. Inside the one I can see into, lazing in the heat, is a giant sized possum.

"Do this a lot the, do you?" I ask.

"Yeah. Between the State forest, the new highway, and urban sprawl, I get a lot of business." She moves another heat lamp next to another cage and turns it on. Then she turns back to _Sam Winchester and guest_.

"Okay, little fella. Let's get you warmed up."

She starts to take Roadkill away from Sam, and Roadkill starts trilling like he's sure he's about to be fileted, and Sam's looking like he's thinking the same thing.

But the lady moves slowly and gently and coos to the furball, "_It's okay, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay." _(Then again, maybe she's cooing that to Sammy.) She scoops up Roadkill and sets him into a nest of towels in the cage and after some more trilling and maybe figuring things out, he lays down and curls up and goes quiet.

Sam looks like he's leaving his firstborn with Freddy Krueger.

"He'll be okay, won't he?" He asks.

"He's got a lot in his favor. If he survived this long, I'd say he's a pretty strong little fella."

I hear an unequivocal 'maybe' in that answer. Maybe Sam does too because he nods but looks only marginally relieved.

"Can we call you to check on him? The lady at the vet's gave us your number. Can we call you?"

"Sure, anytime. That'll be fine." She says it like it's a great idea and she's glad that Sam asked and Sam still looks like he wants to camp out here. Not that I blame him. For a guy who's spent the last six years (at least) desperate to save _someone, something, anything,_ it's nice to have a 'win'. Even a furry rat-ball win.

"C'mon, Sam. Say goodbye to Roadkill and let's get going. I've got a gallon of hand sanitizer with your name on it."

The lady turns to me with mock horror.

"_Roadkill_? Don't call him that. He can _hear_ you, you know."

_That_ makes Sammy relax enough to leave his baby in capable hands. He puts his hands on the cage for a minute, but Roadkill's apparently much too comfortable in heated bliss to notice. We leave the barn and when we're outside again, the lady walks us to the car.

"Thanks for picking him up." She directs that right at Sam. "Most people wouldn't. Most people wouldn't even have noticed him lying there. I'm glad there's somebody like you in the world."

Sam's embarassed and tongue-tied and trying to think of something self-disparaging to say, but before he can, she adds,

"Wash your hands and change your shirts as soon as you can. Raccoons can carry a nasty parasite."

"He will," I tell her, and Sam adds, "Yeah, I will," and that seems enough for her.

"Okay. I'm going to go take care of 'Roadkill'. Call me whenever you want."

She leaves us for her barn and I turn to Sam. He's staring at the barn like he can see Roadkill through the wood. I open the trunk to get some shirts and hand sanitizer out for him.

"C'mon, lets find some place for you to get washed up and changed." I say as I shut the trunk again. "We'll give her a call later tonight."

"Yeah. Okay, yeah."

We get in, I pour Sammy a handful of Purel and we start driving. He swaps out his shirts, tosses the dirty ones in the back and then accepts more Purel (germs I might take the risk with. _Parasites?_ No.)

"You know why I said we should name him Castiel?" He asks after awhile. Just the _sound _of that name sets my teeth on edge. I don't have the energy or the inclination to even attempt a snarky reply.

"No. Why?"

"Because he was separated from him family, lost and hurt, just barely surviving, with nobody but us to help him. And - we had no clue what to do."

I roll my eyes and 'hmpf' something even I don't know what it is. Sammy's not done though.

_"But it doesn't mean we aren't going to try."_

I look at him and he's serious. Cas kicked out the Wall, _Sam's _wall. He risked Sam, he _hurt_ Sam, and all for his own gain. And Sam thinks - ?

"_Help him? Are you __**nuts**__?"_

"He's our _friend_, Dean. Hell, he's more than a friend, he became _family_. We're going to turn our backs on him because he's in over his head? Isn't that when we always _take _action?"

_"Sam - "_

"_Dean _- we can't give up on him. _I _won't give up on him."

_No_. All I can think is '_no, no, no._' All I can think is that I'm keeping Sam as far away from Castiel as I can. All I can think is that Sam can't be thinking that.

"Cas? After everything he did, hell, everything he's _still _doing, you _seriously_ think we're going to try and _help_ him?"

For an answer, I get the _face, _the _eyes, _the _look. _

"Dean - _we're the only ones who __**can**__."_

And just like that, I know that we _will _try.

Sammy - _seriously _- don't ever change.

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

Seriously, why do I doubt that the very first step in rebuilding an engine is to assure the car that you'll '_still respect her in the morning_'?

Dean seemed to think that was hilarious.

But when I asked how many times he's had to tell a car 'I don't know what happened, really, I've never _stalled_ before', he glared at me like I'd just committed blasphemy.

Ha.

I wish he was here. I need to know he's OK.

He's probably thinking the same thing about me.

Dean didn't want to take this job. It's been a couple of months since Castiel's 'demolition job', and we've come up with a lot of ways to keep my hell at bay, but none of them has proved to be 100% and he's particular about our jobs. He's particular about _a lot_ of things, but especially things that involve me, weaponry and monsters. So he didn't want this job, but we were close and kids are being menaced by some dark, scary thing coming out of the river at dusk, and - seriously - you mess with a kid and you answer to Dean Winchester.

And I can handle hell's retrospective pretty well. Sort of nearly pretty well. I've lost more bricks out of what's left of my wall than - than - well, than a wall that's lost a lot of bricks. It's hell (pun not intended but entirely appropriate) but I always make it back.

So we're out here in the woods in Ohio, Hill Valley Spruce Creek or somewhere, hunting this thing down. Sounds like it might be a kelpie. And while they normally target kids, Dean is just a kid at heart, so who knows if the thing will try to get it's cold, slimy green paws on it.

Or hooves, actually. Kelpies look like horses. (And Dean has said he wants to try horseback riding sometime.)

I hate to think of him out there on his own.

But since Castiel ruptured my wall, hell burns at the edges. It stands there waiting for me to lose focus so it can burst up into my brain and flood me with disorientation and agony. On our way through these woods, headed for the river, I felt it coming and I told Dean that I felt it coming. I told him to go on ahead, I could deal.

He didn't want to, but like I said, kids are at risk and - so far - I've always come back, so he went and I'm sitting at the bottom of this tree thinking about engines, wrenches, and calipers. Because Dean threatened me with another car repair quiz when he gets back.

I am surprised he left me here on my own at all, much less to try and beat the flames back unassisted. It's been just over two months and Dean has only _just _started letting me drive the car again. On deserted back roads. In perfectly good weather. Going so slow that Bobby in his _wheelchair_ could catch up with us. And I'm only allowed to go unaccompanied into diners and coffee shops that have full glass walls so that Dean can keep an eye on me the entire time I'm getting us our 'to go' food. And I suppose it's a good thing I have no prospects of dating in the near future, if _ever _again, because Dean keeping an eye on me on a date could be awkward.

This morning though, he did let me close the bathroom door all the way (not locked, never any locked doors between us) and he wasn't even standing near it when I came out again when I was done with my shower.

I figure though that when Dean's hovering starts to bother me, it'll mean I'm getting better. Until then, with the Great Wall of Sam lying in smoldering ruins, it's nice to have the Great Wall of Dean there in its place.

I wish I knew what was going on with Dean out there alone. There's no cell reception here so I can't call him. As soon as I feel like my legs will hold me, I'll follow him out to the river. I want to be there with him. I need to not let him be alone out there. I need him to _know _that he's not alone out there.

But the flames won't quit and I'm exhausted from trying to _make _them quit. They keep coming closer and hotter and I'm not having any luck beating them back.

Nothing is distracting me from them, not engines or epic poems or puzzling out Dean's rather astute (though I won't tell him I think so) observation that _of course_ the egg came first because, technically speaking, the chicken as we know it now is a mutation or evolution or upgrade from what it used to be, which means the upgrade took place when the chicken was forming inside the egg, which means the egg came first because the new and improved chicken came out of that egg.

_And then the flames threaten to turn it into a fried egg if I can't push them away and it's not working, nothing is working and it's just about to fully overtake me_ - when I feel a touch on my hand. My hands are braced on either side of me on the mossy, leafy ground and I feel something soft and scratchy touch my right hand.

A touch. And then another touch. I look down.

It's a raccoon.

_A raccoon._

"Hey - do you know Roadkill?" I ask it. Even though we found and left Roadkill a couple of states over. But my brain is mush. This one is a full grown raccoon, and just as old as Bobby from the looks of it; grizzled snout, patchy white fur, a mitten ear, a crumpled front paw. It must get fed by hikers or something because as soon as it has my attention, it stands on its hind legs and looks at me like it wants something or is waiting for something.

"Sorry. I don't have anything with me. It's all back at the car. If you meet me there after we're done here, I'll give you a day-old slice of pizza."

It stays upright another few seconds and sniffs the air like - well, like it's sniffing the air, then it turns and starts limping off, holding up its crumpled left front paw. I wonder if it can smell the pizza from here and is headed that way.

_Then the pizza is burning because the flames are back and roaring, and my brain feels like it's on fire and in another few seconds it's going to be a toasted marshmallow if not a flaming S'more if I can't get my mind on something else_ -

Another soft scratch-touch on my hand pulls me back from the fire.

The raccoon is back, crumpled paw hovering over my hand, eyes staring into my face like I'm a clueless human who is missing some obvious, vital clue to something.

"What? I told you, pizza is in the car. You're gonna have to wait."

It chitters something at me like it's annoyed. _Annoyed_, for crying out loud.

"I'm sorry. I'm a little preoccupied right now, trying to keep my head from _exploding_."

It chitters and limps away again, giving looks back every few feet. _The farther it goes, the closer the flames come, and they're almost winning _- when I hear a serious raccoon distress call and the flames fall back.

I wait a minute to see what happens. Maybe it met up with a wayward baby raccoon, or a raccoon that owes it money or something equally annoying but not lethal.

Then it happens again. And the second one lasts longer than the first one.

Well, the old guy did distract me from hell, and he is down one good working paw, so I think he deserves some back up. I push to my feet and follow the sound of a clearly aggravated, seriously pissed raccoon.

I'm a little unsteady on my feet, and I'm using trees as balance as I push through the ferns and leaf litter and fallen branches. I follow the sound but I never get any closer, like Grandpa Raccoon is taking his grievances on the road.

"Hey - where are you? Is something bothering you or do just like to complain?"

Okay, whatever. I'm on my feet and moving. Pretty much moving. And I'm moving in the direction of the river, so if I catch up with Grandpa Raccoon, okay. If I don't, I'll get to the river and Dean.

Dean.

I don't like him being out there by himself. Yeah, he'd roll his eyes and make a snarky remark and call me 'Francis' but - but I don't like him out there by himself, even though it's nowhere near dark and anyway kelpies don't attack they lure and no matter how much he might want to go horseback riding, he'd never fall for a kelpie and -

_And I'm face-first on the ground and the flames are consuming me without destroying me and the stench and sizzle and agony are all that exist and it'll be days and weeks and who-knows how long until I can fight them back and until then it's just - _

Something heavy is standing on my back and soft-scratching at my face and chittering, like it's annoyed.

"That you, Gramps?" I manage to ask without getting a mouthful of hubris or hummus or whatever decaying leaves are called because I can barely remember my own name right now. The heaviness walks off of me and Grandpa Raccoon is there in front of me, a couple of feet away. He sniffs the ground and stares at me and limps off again, looking back at me again every few feet and I get the feeling he expects me to follow him.

"_Lassie! Timmy's in trouble!" _I chirp into the hummus. Humus? Humdinger? I get another annoyed chitter out of Grandpa Raccoon.

"_What_?" I lift my head and shout at him. I think I shout at him. Yeah, Dean would get a lot of mileage out of me shouting at a raccoon. My eggs are well and truly scrambled.

_Dean_.

"Hey." I call after the raccoon again, like he's going to answer me. Animals can sense trouble. Maybe something's going on and he knows it. He disappears into the ferns and firs and May-Apples and I negotiate myself to my feet, with my legs rubber and my brain liquid and hell half a step behind.

But Dean is in front of me and that's where I have to get to.

Walking isn't the easiest thing to do right now. The earth keeps tilting. Blood is pounding in my ears. Grandpa Raccoon keeps scolding me.

"_You know, I get enough of that from Dean, I don't need it from you." _I call after him.

My eggs aren't only scrambled, they're well on their way to being an omelet.

I forget how far the river is, not far I think. It's to the west and it's after twelve noon, so I follow the sun. (And the raccoon.) I have to get to Dean. I _will_ get to Dean.

If I can't get my hell under control, I don't know how much help I'll be to him, but at least he'll know I'm there. (And then he'll yell at me for trying to get to him at all.)

Come to think of it, maybe Dean sent Gramps out to check on me. Sure, he made faces at me for taking care of Roadkill, (though if he'd been the one to find him, without me being around, that baby raccoon would've been wrapped in eiderdown and set into a custom made cage with pure spring water and gourmet racccoon kibble.) but I can see him calling in some favors with Gramps here.

Or Gramps _there, _since my erstwhile guide is five or six yards ahead of me.

Pretty soon, the sound of the river starts to overtake the blood pounding in my ears. I'm getting close. I'm almost to Dean.

Then Grandpa Raccoon makes a sharp left, away from the direction of the river.

"Hey - where're you going? Dean's this way."

He doesn't stop (because raccoons don't speak English apparently) so I leave him to himself and keep making my woozy way to the river. I just hope that the ground stays at my feet where it belongs and doesn't come back up to my face.

All of a sudden, there's a _raccoon _at my feet, Gramps, scolding me and casting aspersions on my intelligence, if I'm accurately interpreting his tone of voice.

Seriously, I don't have the time or energy or stomach for this. I have to get to Dean.

Gramps has other ideas apparently. He chitters and chatters and scolds me, stomping angry circles in front of me, between me and the river.

"_What?_"

He stops, he stands, he sniffs the air, and then he's off like a shot, never mind his crippled foot. He books out of there, away from the river and towards a denser stand of saplings, scolding the whole way.

_Okay, bye bye, thanks for stopping over, see you next year. _

I shake my head and turn to the river and -

And from the direction the raccoon ran off, _I hear Dean yell for me._

_Dean's in trouble._

Everything - _everything _- falls away. Hell, flames, nausea, dizziness - nothing matters but getting to Dean.

Getting to him _now._

I'm running full out, the distance disappears beneath my feet and in ten seconds I'm at the edge of a sort of clearing, Grandpa Raccoon is practically screeching, Dean is backed up against a tree - and a huge - _gargantuan -_ big as a _volkswagen _- wild boar is _charging_ him. Head down, tusks up, he means business.

Judging from the shredded jeans and blood soaking down Dean's thigh, this isn't his first charge either.

I don't even think about it, I pull my gun from the back of my jeans and empty it into Wilbur and he collapses into a skid that ends practically at Dean's feet.

Dean stays pressed against the tree a few moments longer, panting, bleeding.

"Not a kelpie." He tells me, casually, then he starts to sink and I hurry to catch him and move him away from Wilbur and to a fallen tree where he can sit and I can get a look at his torn leg.

He's draining blood but it's not arterial, so I pull my shirt off and fold it into a staunch and use the sleeves to tie it around his thigh.

"Man - do you see the _size _of that thing?" I ask him. Mostly to say something. Dean's pale and sweaty and going into shock if he isn't there already. Still he gives me a look like I'm an idiot.

"Uhh - _yeah."_ He answers me. "_Up close and personal." _

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry."

I check my makeshift bandage. The blood is spotting through but not drenching through. Still -

"We need to get you to the hospital. This needs stitches and we have to find out if that thing might have rabies."

"Oh, great." He says. He wipes sweat off of his face and looks at me.

"Nice timing, by the way."

"Yeah, if that raccoon hadn't read me the riot act, I'd still be zoning out back at the -"

_"Raccoon?_" He asks me. "_Not another __**raccoon**__."_

"Yeah. No - yeah." I point over my shoulder to where I left Grandpa Raccoon agitating and agitated. Only, Dean looks where I'm pointing and then looks at me - again - like I'm an idiot, and I realize the woods are silent.

I look.

Grandpa Raccoon is gone.

"Well, he _was _there." I say. I get my shoulder under Dean's arm and his arm around my shoulders and slowly we get him to his feet. "He kept giving me grief all the while I was coming here. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say he knew what he was doing. Guess the gun shots scared him away."

"What is it with you and raccoons?" The question is probably rhetorical. I scoop up the duffel and we make slow progress toward the car

"I think he just expected me to feed him. He was an old raccoon, looked like he'd been through the wars, a bad foot, a torn ear. Probably gets by on begging from hikers."

Dean just grumbles something. He's got to be in a lot of pain, and tugging him out of the woods can't be doing him any favors but my shirt isn't soaked through yet and in another hundred yards the car is in sight.

"Wait. Sammy, wait. I need a minute."

I set him down to rest on the trunk of a felled tree and keep a look out for more feral pigs. He rests his head in his hand, braced on his good leg. After a few seconds though, he sits up like something jumped at him.

"What?" I ask.

"What'd you say that raccoon looked like?"

_What - does he think he knows it?_

I shrug.

"Old, gray, crippled foot, mitten ear. Why?"

He jerks his chin and I follow where he's looking.

There's Grandpa Raccoon, tucked into a little warren formed by the fallen tree against a mound of broken branches and spent leaves.

His body is on its side, flattened by decomposition, white hair blown off in tufts, crumpled left front paw visible, mitten ear still visible on the sunken skull.

He's dead.

He's been dead awhile.

"Dean?" It's all I can think to say. My brain is still too deep-fried to do the heavy lifting of figuring this out. "_Dean?"_

I look at him and he's quirking kind of a strange smile.

"I guess _somebody_ was grateful you took care of Roadkill." He tells me, and adds to my obvious incredulity, "Hey, Native Americans believe that animals have spirits too. You did get to me just in the nick of time. _I'm _not gonna turn down anybody's help. Even a raccoon's."

I just shake my head. I'm too tired to think about it. I don't want to think about it.

But when we get to the car, when I start to stow Dean in the back seat with his leg elevated, I see the pizza box, leftover from last night. It's in the way and I move it to the front seat, but as soon as Dean is set and before I burn rubber for the hospital, I take out a slice of pizza and set it on the ground where a hungry raccoon can find it.

The end.


End file.
